There’s a lion in the celestial bower, a man of honeysuckle blossoms, golden wings, and blinding light. There’s an angel in the bedroom, dressed in goldenrod, hair platinum – you know, the kind of sunshine in a perfect summer sky, and his laughter rings like the peal of a motorcycle. His voice is caramel, his words are molasses – smooth and sweet – and he is the picture of poise and good humor and I swear, if I lick him my mouth would be sticky with sugar. Archangel of mercy, Angel of the Lord that held Abraham’s hand back from wounding the first of so many Prodigal Sons, emissary of benevolence and the fourth sphere of the Sephiroth.
There’s a savior in my window, dancing in tune with the summer rainstorm’s vivacious lightning. There’s a flame of hope that awakens yearning in the darkness of my heart. When the lion roars, it is a cry of liberation. When the chapel bell tolls, he is the shepherd moving the masses up to the cleansing Eucharist. He is the goblet that my wine spills over, he is the torch of heavenly fire I stole from God’s throne room, he is my star. Older brother, twin general, bosom friend of my heart, guardian of innocence and girlhood bliss.
When he holds me, it is with the strength and sacredness of temple walls. When our mouths quest for answers on each other’s tongues, I taste infinity to the tune of eternal joy. Hands like milk, hands like providence, hands like silk that pick ice splinters from my soul. Sure, the heart bleeds waters of the womb in the grip of the hearth, but he has been melting me for years, since I was seven and first saw his candle flame eyes, and every lesson in kindness, I learned from him. He is the essence of lovingkindness and thanksgiving, of the mixed blessing of a giving heart but the curse of never having enough blood to bleed, because patience is endless, but fires need tinder, and it does not do well to burn your patients.
We’re the original hippies – the twin angels of beauty and peace. What better pairing, like salmon with maple syrup and capers set out with chardonnay. They say I am a champagne bubble – sparkly, bright, warm-hearted, soft, girly, loving, caring. But if the psychics are right, and I am a champagne girl, you are the intoxication I cause. Find us on the beach with Bruce Springsteen playing dancing around a roaring bonfire, find us braiding each other’s golden hair with bluebells – we keep it long and blonde, but that doesn’t mean we’re dumb. Find us flying through the cosmos chasing the tails of comets and basking in celestial glows.
You can find us anywhere, really. We’re the Freyr and Freyja of Heaven, the Lovers and Ace of Cups, bubbles and birthdays and barks of laughter you can’t contain. No one can secret a smile for long around him – his kilowatt grin will illuminate even the darkest recesses of the coldest winter night. The moths come flying towards his brilliance, but every dark thing is cleansed in his ultraviolet aura. He taught me to fight, he taught me to keep frith, he taught me family and faith and fearlessness. My animus of glorious, splendorous bravery, the one who wields the sword in times of war and the scroll in times of peace. He’s sweet on children, answers endless questions for inquisitive young girls, and is all to happy to play make-believe with aspiring princesses.
Now I’m older, and I’m far from a princess, but my star is still a star – the most brilliant soul in the multiverse – and in the most heinous wreckage, he taught me to glow.
For what is love if you cannot share it, and who is an angel but a missionary of love?